Lech Lecha | לֶךְ לְךָTake yourself & go

Abraham was a traveler on a liberating path marked by potholes. He was commanded by God: “Lech lecha. Go. Go to yourself. Leave who you were behind, everything and everyone you’ve known.” (Genesis 12:1, paraphrased) God’s command is deeply personal. And each time we, Abraham’s children, revisit that divine imperative, it plunges us yet again into an unknown future. More than that: The sacred call to journey forth is accompanied, every time, by real risk, and without the fortifying mixture of faith and trust — faith that the future might hold blessing, trust that the loss of the familiar is worth the risk — we stand to lose ourselves as we seek ourselves.

On my first trip to Bethlehem a decade ago, I was not afraid; I was full of curiosity, eager to experience the unknown. Just fifteen minutes from Jerusalem, our group of Jewish leaders entered a foreign world. There, we spent two days with Encounter, a nonpartisan educational organization, listening to Palestinian activists and leaders.

When a young child is terrified of the dark, we may consider it “childish,” since we know such fear usually has no basis in reality. Yet, even as adults, we sometimes find ourselves in the same posture as the child, confronting the boundaries of what we know with anxious uncertainty about what lies beyond.

Sixteen years ago, on a beautiful, bright, cold day, I stood on the bank of the Hudson River, hand-in-hand with Carolyn, the woman I loved, and had what turned out to be the most important conversation of my life. Little did I know that this pleasant afternoon stroll would mark the beginning of my grand journey — a journey that would redefine my relationship to myself, my Israeliness, my Jewish identity, my language, and my career as a writer. It was the last day of winter break. I was supposed to return to Jerusalem the next day, having spent ten enchanted days with Carolyn, who is now my wife and the mother of my daughters. Our romantic saga was long and eventful, and led to this moment on the river’s edge, when we decided that I would return to New York to see if our life together would work. That moment, shrouded in the shimmering veils of nostalgia, was not a moment of certainty or a moment of full consciousness. I suspect now that many of the formative moments of our individual and collective history are the same — their gravity is recognized only in hindsight, as their consequences, rewards, and costs become evident.

A guide with suggestions to help readers consider the idea of “lech lecha” (going forth). The guide includes activities and conversation prompts for individual contemplation and informal or more structured conversations.